The Passion of Jason Kelce

Jason Kelce is normal. Sure, he’s 6-foot-3 and weighs 270 pounds (down from 295) and bound for the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Yes, he signed a podcast deal with his younger brother by 23 months, Travis, for nine figures. Perhaps you’ve heard of Travis’ wife, whose fame is so vast it has its own orbit, which has drawn the elder Kelce and his family into the orbit, too. Jason also owns a beer company, an apparel company, a small herd of cows in an organic beef venture and, as of last year, he’s an investor in Sullivan County Golf Club, two hours north of New York City.

But aside from all these things, he’s just like you and me. Case in point, he’s late for his tee time at Sullivan County, a scrappy little nine-holer that was rescued, in part, by golf writer Tom Coyne, who managed to coax Bill Murray and later Kelce into investing. After a redesign, the course’s new greens are still scruffy, the two-man maintenance crew doing the work of a dozen, but the property is rounding into form. The renovations to the restaurant, bar and pro shop, which don’t rely on Mother Nature’s cooperation, have come off splendidly. The white walls with pops of blue and modern furniture make the inside feel almost like a Crate & Barrel showroom.

That golf exists here at all is a testament to the game’s hold on our imaginations. The landscape of the Catskills has always been better suited to outdoor pastimes like hiking, hunting and fishing. Yet, this course has been in continuous operation since 1925. Its fairways carve into mountains that rise high above the greens and tilt with the grade of the hillsides they rest upon. You’ll find no pretense or top-100 aspirations here. This is just golf for those who love it. Jeans and a sweatshirt are just fine. 

Like any other middle-aged man after a car ride—and one extra pop the night before—Kelce steps from the vehicle tentatively, as if crossing a crevasse, his hips and back
knotted from sitting and in need of a good stretch. He could invest in nearly anything and play golf anywhere, but he’s here.

Kelce is only two years removed from his football career. It’s not hard to picture him still wearing his Philadelphia Eagles uniform darkened by sweat, his cheeks pinched by his helmet, the cold air biting at his bare arms, but the brute’s demeanor on the range is docile. He pushes a handful of balls toward me, encouraging me to take a few swings, too. His game is a work in progress, just as it is for the rest of us.